


A Matter of Tactical Convenience

by MiniMangoes



Series: The Captain's Journal [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Marriages of Convenience, good guy arthur, now you know where moira gets all her alcohol from, proposals as a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMangoes/pseuds/MiniMangoes
Summary: “Arthur,” Moira loudly declared, “let’s get married.”Arthur looked up from the table, eyes bloodshot. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character
Series: The Captain's Journal [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838770
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	A Matter of Tactical Convenience

Moira slammed down a bottle of rum onto a table, narrowly missing the head of a slumped-over figure.

“Arthur,” Moira loudly declared, “let’s get married.”

Arthur looked up from the table, eyes bloodshot. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

* * *

“No, listen, I’m serious!” Moira gestured wildly. The two pirates were sitting alone in the storage hull, cards and chips scattered across the table. The smell of rum and tobacco was thick in the air. “We’ve got to get married. It’s important.”

“Finally planning on getting over Joseph, huh.” He clumsily dodged a punch. “Go marry a shark if you’re that desperate.” He reached for the rum bottle.

“Fuck you too.” Moira snatched away the bottle and took a large swig. Dubbed “the allowance bottle,” Moira was fiercely possessive of the red bottle, which contained exactly one handle of rum, refilled daily. (“So,” Hunkle confided to Arthur, voice monotone, “we know she’s only getting one handle a day, as per the punishment.” The changeling shook their head. “She still drinks the same amount as usual, though, so I’m not sure if she’s just pacing herself better or that bottle magically refills itself.” Hunkle stared at the bottle. “Definitely magic.”) 

Wiping her mouth, Moira grimaced. “Look, you’re the last person I’d ask, because marriage fucking sucks, but you’re also the only person I’d ask on this damn ship. So hurry up and say yes, because I need to go kidnap a cleric sometime soon.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Go to hell, that’s what. Marriage is just another way for Davey Jones to track souls, a binding contract to make sure you fucking die.  _ Until death do us part _ . Like hell I’d let them spy on me like that.” He scoffed. “Besides, I’ve seen you cheat death so many times, I’m not sure you can even be faithful anymore.”

Moira rolled her eyes. “Oh don’t lecture me on being faithful, you whoring bastard.” She leaned back and propped her legs on the table. “Besides, what’s a little fun occasionally? I’m sure death won’t mind.” She gave a rakish smile. “I can make it up to them well, don’t you agree?”

Arthur made a gagging sound, and pointed at the rum bottle. Moira handed it over wordlessly. Arthur, it seemed, was the exception.  _ As always _ , a voice sounding suspiciously like Dinkleshire said in his brain. Arthur closed his eyes and blanched. “I’m keeping the rest of this bottle for that mental image you just gave me, fuck you.” He ignored Moira’s sounds of protest and took a large gulp. “I’m gonna need something stronger than bleach to get rid of that mental image. Look, I’m just saying, it’s unlike you, Captain, to be talking about such things. What’s with the switch?”

Moira leaned over conspiratorially and pulled out a small yellow book. The book was clearly old - between the yellow leather cover splattered with stains and yellowed pages crumbly with age, thought Arthur, it was a wonder that the book didn’t turn into dust at the spot. He could just barely make out the faded writing on the book’s cover -  _ Field Notes and Observations: Practical Theory by Xanathar, Applicable to All Situations, Creatures, and Most Everything in the Universe, Including but Not Limited to: Orangutans; Kelpies, Especially if Vicious _ ;  _ Strange Locations, Such As the Bean, Not to Be Confused With Mr. Bean;  _ \- the title continued on, covering the rest of the cover with barely legible chicken scratch. Arthur felt his vision blur out of sheer boredom. 

He glanced at Moira, who was chewing her lip in uncharacteristic nervousness. Seemingly without care for the book’s fragile state, the selkie quickly flipped through the book, stopping at a page near the end of the journal. “Well, I was going through some of Deirdre’s old things - that bastard sure had a bunch of crap, I’m telling you - when I found this.” She handed the journal over to Arthur and pointed at the open page. “Look.”

Arthur looked at the faded yellow pages and squinted. 

_ According to my research, married individuals, when close, are observed to have higher abilities in battle, in an effect that I named earlier as “strike index” (see “A.C., or the Value of Strike Index” for more information). This effect only lasts for 7 days, however, and is most likely attributed to the copious amounts of love and devotion, as well as its physical manifestation, that exist between newlyweds. _

“So,” he said drily, “the more you fuck, the better you do in battle?”

Moira tapped the page impatiently. “Keep reading, you bastard.”

_ At first I assumed that this was because of after effects of any physical activity, but after many, many personal experiments on this front, I conclude that the aforementioned physical activity does not improve the Strike Index as first assumed. Therefore, I assume that it must be because of marriage.  _ A long list of names and numbers were written on the opposite side.

Arthur nodded his head. “Get married, get stronger. Well, it’s not the stupidest of ideas you’ve come up with. But why me. What about that Ghost person? Isn’t he under the Kid’s influence now?”

Moira clicked her tongue. “Ghost’s a bastard, but he’s not a bastard I’d shackle myself to.” 

Arthur looked at Moira strangely. “Uh-huh.”

Moira groaned and threw her head back. “Look, it’s marriage, alright? That’s probably, I don’t know, some big fucking deal or something. I’m not an expert -” Arthur snorted. “-But I imagine that marriage has to be, you know, something big. Important.  _ Till death do us part, in sickness or in health _ . Shit like that. I’m not gonna trust Ghost with that, hell no.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Cut the crap.” He hesitated slightly. He felt nauseous, for some odd inexplicable reason. “You’re not getting married for some higher reason. You’re getting married to get stronger.” He sighed. “Does it really matter who you’re getting married to?”

“Obviously. Look at the numbers.” Moira pointed to the table of data. “See, if you get married, both you and the other person gets an increase in this so-called strike index, or whatever. I’m assuming it’s to get stronger.” She flipped her hair. “I’m pretty strong, but I’d always like that bonus.”

“Narcissistic, aren’t you,” Arthur grouched. Moira rolled her eyes. “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s not just me that gets stronger. So does the other person. Tactically speaking, if I can also give a weaker person a stronger bonus, that would increase our manpower and give us an advantage.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Are you calling me weak?”

Moira raised her hands. “And risk offending my rum smuggler in these trying times? Never.” She shrugged. “You can easily hold your own. But this bonus is useful, you’ve got to admit that. Now, can you just hurry up and agree already?”

Arthur shook his head. “In that case, you’re better off marrying a very strong person, or a very weak person, if you’re going to get the most use from the bonus. Look, Captain, I’m not sure why you want it to be me. Tactically speaking, choosing me is the stupidest decision. I hate to say it - and I’m saying it because it’s you, if you say a word to anyone else I’ll fucking burn all your alcohol - but I’m no longer one of the strongest on the ship. But I’m not the weakest, either. I’m - just there, yeah? Somewhere in the middle, probably higher but still. You’re just going to waste the bonus on me. I get stronger, and what? It’s not as effective.” He leaned back. “You’re better off marrying Dinkleshire, if you really care about tactics.”

She shook her head. “Fuck you and fuck your logic.” She sounded strangely pained. “Look, all I’m saying is that when the time comes, some big showdown or whatever, we’re gonna get fucking married.” She lowered her breath, muttering to the side, cheeks slightly pink. “And that’s that,” she finished in a loud voice.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What’s that, Captain?” Arthur taunted, “I can’t hear you. Is this your way of proving that I’m weaker than I think, that I can’t hear as well as I used to be?” Somehow, the thought of Moira seeing him as weak - as if he were some  _ liability _ \- annoyed him greatly. “Goddammit, Captain, speak up.”

Moira crossed her arms, silent. Arthur kicked her shin.

“I said,” Moira said after a while, eyes boring a hole into the floor, face flaming red, “I said, I’m not gonna have you practically die on me twice, goddammit. You said so yourself. You’re not as strong as you used to be. That’s not an excuse to go off and fucking die, goddammit. Not on my watch. Fuck you.” 

_ Fuck you,  _ she said.

_ I care about you _ , she meant.

Arthur blinked, then looked away, suddenly bashful. A strange prickly feeling overcame him. 

“Go to hell,” he muttered, voice strangely hollow. “I don’t die that easily. Fuck you and your worries.” His mind spiraled in numb elation.  _ I care about you. I care about you _ . God, he was getting soft in his old age. “Shut up. Just give me your rum bottle so I can refill it, you goddamn alcoholic.”

He pointed at the rum bottle, still half-full. He knew that the simple act of refilling the rum bottle (a once-off action, born out of what he tried to convince himself was smug pity, which soon spiraled into a full-blown rum smuggling enterprise) was nothing out of the ordinary.  _ Hell _ , he thought,  _ I do it every day _ . This time, however, something felt off, as if he were trying to say something more - but couldn’t exactly put his finger on what, or to whom.

Taking a deep breath, Moira shakily reached for the rum bottle. After taking a long drink, she handed over the now empty bottle to Arthur, who deftly plucked it out of her hands.

Reaching underneath the table, Arthur pulled out a large flask of alcohol and wordlessly poured its contents into the bottle. Filling the entire bottle with rum, he tucked away the flask and handed the full bottle back to Moira. A strange look passed over her face.

Only until after he was done did his actions’ meaning dawn on Arthur.

_ I care about you too _ , he said, unknowingly yet not unwillingly.  _ I care about you too, and I won’t let you suffer. I’ve got your back. Don’t worry about me. _

Moira’s eyes were strangely glassy as she reached for the rum handle, corking it and putting it into her coat pocket. A small, vulnerable smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but struggled to find her words. Arthur, it seems, wasn’t the only one thrown off balance today.

_ Perhaps they were both getting soft _ , Arthur thought.

“We will,” he said, voice strangely tight. He decided to blame it on the tobacco-filled air. “Never speak of this again.” 

“Of course,” she said, voice distant. “Never.”

She shook her head and leaned forward, grinning widely.

“So, what about getting married, huh?”

Arthur snorted. “Don’t push your luck.” He gathered up some poker chips. “Try again some other time.” 

_ Sure,  _ he meant.  _ Why the hell not? _

But that was later. First, Moira owed him a game of poker.


End file.
